


Dead of Winter

by RoseColoredDreams



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1950s, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Post WWII, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-08-27 10:43:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16700983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseColoredDreams/pseuds/RoseColoredDreams
Summary: After a severe blow to the head, the Winter Soldier is unable to remember his way back after a mission, and is forced to take refuge from an oncoming blizzard with a woman and her child.





	1. One

He didn’t know where he was. He knew that he was injured, though, and there was an incessant pounding in his head. With every step he took, more and more blood spurted from the wound in his leg. He had become lost, dazed from the blow, and he was now wandering off the edge of the map. He had run, inadvertently, deeper into the frozen heart of the Soviet Union. The forest was dense, like the walls he had previously been trapped behind, and they closed in on him just the same. He continued forward without reason, unsettled by the cold wind and pain in his thigh. Instinct told him to find shelter.  
He came upon it out of the blue: a small shack stuck in the middle of a snowy field. He pried the lock off, breaking it with a simple twist, and entered. It was not much warmer, but it was at least out of the wind, and there on a moldy pile of hay he rested. He felt ill for not knowing where he was supposed to go or what to do next, but sleep eventually overtook him, and the throbbing in his head subsided. 

 

In the early hours of the morning a rather peculiar event happened. The stranger, who was always on his guard, stirred at the sound of the shack door creaking open. He narrowed his gray eyes, preparing for anything to come out of the twilight, but his years of training could not prepare him for what came next: A small child, a little girl, peeked her head into the shack.  
Tufts of her mousy hair stuck out from under her toboggan, and her cheeks were red with the cold. She seemed a bit startled by the stranger, but not at all frightened. She tottered towards him on, and the stranger did not move. Instinct told him this creature was harmless, but still it remained unpredictable. And where there were children, parents were not far off.  
The little tot crouched beside him, playing with the buckle of his boot through her mittens and then moving her way up to his belt loop, where he holstered a gun. He put a hand over his weapon protectively, and she ran her little fingers over the metal of his prosthetic arm.

His body went rigid. 

She was a brave little thing as she climbed into his lap to escape the cold of the ground, and she nestled against his stomach, rising as he inhaled. Her small hands reached up and pulled at the mask that covered his nose. Seeing her as no threat, he allowed her to pull it down, and run her fingers over the whiskers that had formed there. Annoyingly she began to pat his cheeks, and he clenched his jaw. She then tugged at a lock of his hair, and he tried to swat her away, but she grabbed a hold of his fingers and when he lifted his arm she went with it, giggling like it was a game.  
He greatly wished this creature would bumble back to wherever it came from, but she seemed to be going nowhere soon. She crawled back into his lap, and played with his metal fingers that could have crushed her skull if he so chose. She babbled incoherently to him, and he made no noise at all. 

A sudden, shrill voice cut through the morning. “Anya!” 

The little girl snapped to attention, ceasing her play.

“Mama!” She exclaimed, and pushed herself off the stranger’s lap and headed back towards the door. He took this opportunity to test the strength in his leg and discovered a new soreness.  
His vision blurred and his walk was unsteady, but this would not stop him. He was a soldier, and pain was a factor of the job that was to be accepted and ignored. Still, this wound wouldnt heal on its own, not until whatever was festering inside it was removed. He could pry it out, himself, but that would only risk blood loss. He needed medical tools, which gave him all the more reason to get back to...  
The pain was fogging his mind, and he could not remember where at the moment, but he would eventually. He had to.  
The stranger pushed the door of the shack open and kneeled in the snow, grabbing a handful to press to the sore on his leg, hoping to at least numb the pain, if only for a short while. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment of sweet relief that followed the initial sting. 

To his left there was the sound of snow crunching under someone’s feet, and with superhuman speed he turned in time to see a shovel making way for his face.


	2. Two

It was the pain in his leg that woke him. He didn’t feel the pain in his head until he tried to sit up, and only then did he remember the shovel coming down across his nose. He forced his eyes open, but the room was unrecognizable. Aside from himself and the bed, there was nothing in it. The blinds were drawn, making it comfortably dim, although he was far too panicked to find comfort.

He moved to get out of bed, but his wrists had been restrained. A simple twist, and his prosthetic broke free of the leather binding, and he was able to untie the other.

Somewhere in another part of the building he heard a record playing. It was an upbeat tune, harmonized by a woman’s voice, but as he listened closer he could hear another voice singing along. One that was not playing on the record.

He gently pulled the door open, and eased his way down the hall. His head throbbed with every step, but he would have to ignore that for now.

From what he could gather, there were two others in this house. He came into what he assumed was a living room; There was an old television set in front of a worn-out couch, along with a bookshelf crammed with too many books. This room was small, and lead into the kitchen.

The sight he came upon next was rather unexpected: in the center of the dining room floor was a wash tub, and within that wash tub was a woman. She was completely, and utterly naked, the only coverage being her wet hair draped down her back, which was thankfully, turned to him. Between her legs he could see the child that had found him out in the shed, playing with a cup as her mother rinsed her hair. The two of them were too focused to realize that their house guest had awoke.

His chest tightened, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in quite some time: shame. It made his cheeks hot, and he turned his eyes away.

She was the one singing along with the record, he now concluded. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard music, or singing…or had seen a naked woman. He couldn’t remember a lot, and that bothered him.

He shifted his weight, and the floor creaked. The woman’s head swiveled around quickly, and her eyes met his briefly before she let out a shriek that made him cringe. She moved swiftly, scooping her bewildered child out of the tub and hurrying to wrap a towel around the two of them, but not before he caught a glimpse of her bare bottom. She backed herself into the corner of her kitchen, yelling at him, which in turn scared the child, causing her to cry.

His head was pounding. He doubled over and prodded his forehead with his finger to try and ease the pain. He forced his eyes closed, but still listened as his captor shuffled around the kitchen, now trying to soothe her startled toddler.

He heard the rattle of pills in a plastic bottle, a cabinet closed, and then felt something tap his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, she was standing a few feet away, arm outstretched with a bottle of pain medicine. Her eyes were wide.

“ _Please don’t hurt my baby,_ ” She pleaded in a Soviet tongue.

He took the bottle, and she eyed him like he was some sort of wild animal. He certainly couldn’t have looked any better than one.

Her chest heaved, and she shivered, dripping wet in the midst of a cold kitchen. Or did she shiver because of him?

The child, having calmed down enough to recognize him, stretched out her little hand and wiggled her fingers. Her teary eyes met his, almost begging for comfort. He twitched, and lifted his finger to meet hers...but her mother was quick to pull her away at the sight of his prosthetic.

“ _What is your name?_ ”

He twisted the cap off the bottle and tossed back three pills. “ _I cannot remember._ ”

She flinched as he made to give her the bottle back.

_“It is none of your concern.”_

_“I will need to look at that leg.”_

He raised his eyebrows, slightly amused. Did she intend to do this naked?

_“No need. I’m going.”_

_“You may have an infection.”_ She protested. _“And you cannot travel in this blizzard.”_

He hesitated. His eyes traveled to his leg, where the wound had begun to seep through the wrap, and then to a window, where all he saw was white. He was impervious to a lot of things, but death by gangrene was not one of them. Not to mention he had no recollection of where he should be going, and travelling in this weather was a fool's errand.

His eyes fell back on her. _“You have until this passes. After, I am gone, regardless.”_

 _“That is perfectly fine with me,”_ she replied, and then cautiously scooted past him, and down the hallway. The child waved at him from over her mother’s shoulder.

***

 _“Have you remembered your name, yet?”_ The woman asked as she ushered him into the kitchen, and made him strip off his pants.

It was only fair, he mused to himself, that she see him half naked, too. He was at least left in his underwear and crewneck.

She sat him down on a stool in front of a gas burning stove, and she knelt next to his thigh. Beside her, she had a bucket of snow and a medical tool box, and she furiously scrubbed her hands clean.

 _“I am no one.”_ He replied.

 _“Well,_ No One, _do you remember how you came to be in my shed?”_ She asked harshly.

 _“I broke the lock.”_ She rolled her eyes.

_“I don’t suppose you have any recollection of how this happened, do you? Or at least you don’t want to tell me, is that it?”_

_“Both.”_

She rolled her eyes again, and reached behind her and revealed a flask. She offered it to him, and although he knew vodka would have no effect on his body, he gladly tipped it back.

_“Would you like anything to bite down on?”_

_“I’ve endured worse.”_ The torture was one thing he could remember.

She then took a handful of snow, and pressed it to the entry wound. “Have you done this before?”

“I was a nurse in the second world war.” She said quietly, inspecting his flesh. “I was only eighteen.”

He didn’t question her further. He knew he could do this himself, without numbing, but instead he let her work.

When her fingers began to turn red, she removed the clump of snow, and began to dig. It was, by no means, a comfortable procedure. The snow had merely taken the edge off of the pain.                Blood oozed its way to the surface, followed by a bout of pus that had begun to form. Any longer, and the infection would have flared up. She pulled out a fragment or two, dropping them onto a rag, and then stopped to press more snow into it.

_“Tell me if the pain gets too bad.”_

He grunted, and said nothing.

She continued at this pace, removing a few pieces, and then stopping to ease his discomfort. He wished she would just carry on and get it over with, but he was appreciative of her thoughtfulness. She came to another pause, but didn’t reach for the snow. Instead, she sat back on her heels, brushed her hair away from her eyes, and looked at him.

 _“I need to change angles.”_ He didn’t know what she meant until she stood, and forced his thighs apart. His face grew hot as she settled on her knees between his. His body went stiff, and he awkwardly tried to find somewhere else to look. He was facing a new sort of discomfort, and by the redness of her ears, she was no happier than he was. At least she was working faster.

His eyes landed on a picture tacked to the wall: A man, heavily clad in leather. A fur hat. A uniform. It was from the war, he assumed. A war he was told about, but could not remember.

 _“I’m going to cauterize this wound, alright? It is deep, but nothing has been severely damaged.”_ She looked up at him from between his thighs, and his breath caught in his throat. _“You are very lucky.”_ Her hand fell on his thigh as she pushed away from him and towards the stove, and just the brief touch made him flinch. If she noticed, she said nothing, and he was able to breath again.

She got the fire-poker red hot, and pressed it to the wound. It smelled, and he reminded himself that things had been _much_ worse.

 _“Hold some snow to it if it ails you. Otherwise, I’ll wrap it, and you can rest.”_ He allowed her to wrap it, holding his breath as her nimble hands ventured around his thigh. It'd been awhile since he'd felt a woman's gentle touch... She left the kitchen without so much as a word to him.

He waited, his eyes lingering on the picture of the man in the fur hat, wondering who he was to this woman. Wondering if he would be returning, and what he would say about finding him here. She returned with a fresh set of clothes and that broke his concentration.

_“These are no longer being used, and I have no need for them. See if they fit, and I will wash what you have.”_

It was a pair of denim jeans, and a stretched sweater. He pulled off what his crewneck, and the woman's eyes lingered on where his prosthetic met flesh. They then flashed to the bruises and old scars across his abdomen, but she kept her lips tightly pursed and made off with his shirt. The clothes she had handed him were oddly comfortable, but he didn’t know how to feel about being out of uniform. He was only ever out of uniform to shower, so it was safe to say he felt naked without it. When his hostess turned the corner she stopped, her eyes hovering over him, before finally reaching his. Her expression struck him as sorrowful.

 _“This does not mean I trust you,”_ she said harshly. _“I’d like you to stay in the room I had you. I’ll bring you supper.”_

She brushed past him, towards the kitchen, and he took this as his cue to leave. He limped back to the bedroom, almost grateful to be left alone, as this would give him time to remember.


	3. Three

He worked hard at remembering, but could scarcely remember his name, let alone what had caused him to end up in such a situation. He thought, pondered, worried, and ultimately ended up asleep. 

And damn, he could have slept a long time had his stomach not woke him. 

A savory smell tickled his nose, and he lifted his head, only to realize it had grown dark outside. How long had he slept?

He wobbled to the door, his head still dizzy. He rubbed his bleary eyes as he stumbled down the hallway and into the kitchen, grateful to see that his hostess was fully clothed this time. Her back was turned to him as she peeled potatoes on the counter, but the little girl, (Anya, he remembered) sat playing with a couple of ragdolls. 

Her eyes were quick to spy him, and she threw down her dolls and hastily bobbled over to him.

“Papa!” She shouted gleefully, causing her mother to spin around.

The little girl grabbed ahold of his pant’s leg, and stood on her tiptoes. She came just about to his knee.  _ “Up! Up!” _

_ “Anya!”  _ Her mother scolded, pulling her child away from the stranger, and lifting her to her hip. She leaned, and insisted on being held by him, but her mother held tightly to her.  _ “You look like her father in those clothes. She has not seen him...in quite some time.” _

She put the toddler down, only to watch her run back to the stranger and cling to his leg. 

_ “Anya!”  _

_ “It is alright,” _ he assured her, although he had not been around a child...ever, for all he knew.  _ “How long did I sleep?” _

_ “All day. I was going to wake you for lunch, but decided to let you be.” _ She then went back to her potatoes.  _ “How’s your leg feeling?” _

_ “Sore.” _

_ “Do me a favor and step outside the door there and grab some more wood for the fireplace.” _

He could tell she was still very suspicious of him, but was going to utilize him the best way she could. He obliged, and stepped out into the freezing wind to grasp some logs stacked by the stoop. 

It was cold in the house, but it was near unbearable outside. He threw the logs into the fireplace in the living room, and lit a match. It wasn’t long before the room was noticeably warmer, and like a moth to the flame, in tottered Anya. 

He held a hand out to stop her from getting too close to the flames, and she thoughtlessly grabbed ahold of his fingers. 

_ “Up,  _ Papa _.” _ He ignored her the first time, simply trying to enjoy the radiating warmth, but her little fingers curled around his pants leg, and pulled against them, as if trying to climb.  _ “Up, up.” _

Even though he knew this would further confuse the child, and most likely earn the disapproval of her mother, he bent and picked the little girl up, and like he saw her mother do, placed her on his hip. She immediately wrapped her little arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder.

It was very odd, for him. He may not of known who he was, but he knew what he was, and that was not a domestic figure.

But this little girl knew nothing of what he was capable of, what he had done, and that was alright with him.

_ “The stew is...what are you doing?”  _ Anya’s mother came swooping in, eyes wide with shock at her child in the arms of a blatant stranger.  _ “Put her down...give her to me. Give her to me!”  _

He didn’t fight her as she pried the reluctant child away from his grasp. She shot him a heated glare and repeated, “ _ The stew is ready. _ ”

He limped into the kitchen behind them and found she had seated him at one end of the table, while they were at the other. He wasn’t offended by this, after all, this wasn’t a family dinner. 

The stew she had prepped consisted of potatoes and what he assumed was rabbit, and despite it’s bland flavor he quite enjoyed it. He had downed his meal quickly before she was halfway through hers, too concerned with feeding her daughter than herself. 

He watched as she scooped the broth into her daughter’s mouth and then dab her lips with a handkerchief, taking quick bites in between. 

_ “I can feed her while you eat.”  _ He found himself offering. He had nothing better to do.

_ “No,”  _ She stated harshly,  _ “I’ve got this.”   _

_ “Your stew is getting cold. Eat and I will feed her.” _ He stood from his chair, and moved to their end of the table. The mother was wide eyed as he sat across from her and took the spoon from her hand.  _ “Eat,” _ he repeated with a curt nod to her own bowl. 

She stared at him for a moment, the way his metallic arm moved and held the spoon like any other arm would, before asking,  _ “What happened to your arm?”  _

He unclenched his teeth, holding the spoon up to the small child’s mouth before saying, “An accident.” 

_ “Well,” _ the mother scraped her spoon across the bottom of her bowl,  _ “I’d hope it wasn’t on purpose.” _ For a moment he thought she was trying to be clever, but the look behind her eyes held genuine concern. There was a pause before she finally blurted,  _ “Were you part of the concentration camps?”  _

Somewhere deep in him he knew what she was referring to. While he had been the experiment of some deranged doctors, it had not been at any prison camp in Germany. 

_ “No.”  _ He replied. 

She waited for an explanation, and when she realized she would not be getting one, she put her head down to eat. 

_ “I cannot explain, because I cannot remember,”  _ He told her.  _ “I can’t even remember my name.”  _

She continued to eat, processing what he was saying, and when she had finished she pushed her bowl away, and with utmost sincerity said,  _ “I’m sorry for you.” _

And then she began to clean. 

 

***

 

He had sat on one side of the couch as Anya played at his feet in front of the fireplace. Along with her ragdolls she had a collection of small wooden animals that she tapped along the floor as if they were in motion. 

Her mother came and joined him on the other side. It was a short sofa, and with his arm stretched out, he could still touch her on the back of the neck. 

_ “You’ve not told me your name.” _ He muttered to her. 

_ “You’ve not asked,”  _ She smirked and folded her legs up on the other end of the couch. He raised his eyebrows as if to prod the answer out of her, to which she replied,  _ “Christa.” _

They sat and watched Anya play for a moment, and finally he said,  _ “The meal was nice.” _

_ “Thank you.” _ She replied bluntly.  _ “It’s not often I cook for more than two.” _

The two continued watching the little girl play, babbling words that weren’t of any language but her own, and eventually she laid across the floor as her arms grew heavy and her toys move slower. Finally Christa stood and lifted the girl into her arms.  __

_ “I want you in your room. Tired or not, I will not have you wandering the house while I sleep.”  _

He understood her fear. So he grabbed a couple of books from the shelf and retired to his own bedroom.

 

A hollow face haunted his dreams. Pale lips upon ghostly white features, eyes rolled back, the owner having succumbed to death. 

There was something uncomfortably familiar about this face, and when it’s gaping mouth suddenly gasped he nearly jolted out of his bed. 

He was thirsty.

He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and walked towards the door, considering what his hostess had said. 

But it was only water. It would be quick. 

Gingerly he shuffled down the hallway, his head heavy from sleep and having been hit with a shovel. He rounded the corner and nearly startled, which was unlike him.

Christa sat at the table.

“ _ You’re out of your room, _ ” her voice was low, like the growl of a hound.

“ _ As are you. _ ” he replied, and her glare did not soften. “ _ I was thirsty, _ ” he explained. 

She dropped her gaze to her hands. “ _ You scare me, and I cannot sleep _ ,” came her own explanation. She raised her eyes to his once more, “ _ I’m glad I did not. _ ” 

“ _ I have no reason to harm you. _ ”

“ _ Someone had a reason to harm you, though, and I cannot figure out why. If you’re not from the camps, then you’re from somewhere else far worse, and I don’t like you here.”  _

Honesty ran cold in the late hours.

_ “I opted to leave. You would not allow it.”  _

_ “Had you died they would have come looking for you and they would have found me and my daughter. _ ”  

He furrowed his brow. “ _ Who is  _ they?”

Christa shrugged, almost resembling a child when she did so.  _ “Whoever sawed your arm off and put it back on. What kind of experiments do you think they will run on a child?”  _

He had failed to find Mary Shelley’s  _ Frankenstein _ on her bookshelf, but there was no doubt she had read it. 

_ “I cannot remember my name. I cannot remember why I’m out here. But I assure you I am something far worse than just an experiment.” _

She sat back in her chair. His blue eyes were practically glowing from under his brow, and she felt like a mouse being cornered. Bravely, and with authority, she said,  _ “Get your water and go back to bed.” _

He did so.


End file.
